by R. L. Stine
“I knew you were a hero,” Sophie said to me. “I told you so, didn’t I?”
“Now we’re all winners!” Ricardo exclaimed, slapping me on the back.
Bert and the other counselors partied with us. Everyone celebrated the fact that Mrs. Maaargh the monster had fled the island in a total panic.
Our party lasted for two whole days.
And then a new Teacher showed up.
Uncle Felix introduced him to everyone in the dining hall. “I don’t know where he came from. But he just arrived, and I know you dogs will make him feel welcome.”
He stepped aside — and a huge, ugly two-headed monster stepped forward.
We all groaned and stared in horror as the two heads began to speak.
“I am Mr. Baaargh,” one head shouted.
The other head said, “I’ll be The Teacher till the end of camp. And I don’t want any of you to worry.”
“Camp Winner will continue as normal,” the first head said.
He pulled up a new chart. “Keep your eyes on the chart, everyone. At the end of camp, I’m going to eat two of you.”
A chill rolled down my back as my friend Ivy and I gazed up at my new house. The house was dark gray with peeling paint. Black shutters tilted at the dust-smeared windows.
Under the sloping roof, one attic window was broken and covered with cardboard. The wind whistled into the window high above our heads. It sounded like someone screaming.
I wanted to scream.
“It’s a haunted house,” I said. “It belongs in a horror movie.”
“Your mom will get it cleaned up, Mario,” Ivy said.
I knew Ivy for only a couple of weeks. She was the first friend I made since we moved to Franklin Village. She was cheerful Miss Sunshine all the time.
I told her that. She said, “I’d rather be Miss Sunshine than someone howling at the full moon.”
Does that make any sense?
Ivy was always saying things like that. But I liked her anyway. She was cute. She was twelve like me. Tiny, with a pointed chin and pointed little nose. Like an elf in the picture books my mom used to read me when I was little.
She had short blond hair and green eyes. And she usually wore the same green sweater with a lacy white collar. I guess because it matched her eyes.
“I couldn’t get to sleep last night,” I said. “I kept hearing a tap-tap-tap above me. I knew what it was. It was mice running across my ceiling.”
“Tap-tap-tap is better than thump-thump-thump,” Ivy said.
That made me laugh.
I turned away from the house. It made me sad that Mom and I had to live in such a creepy old wreck of a place. But we really had no choice.
My dad was in Germany fighting the war. And Mom was working two factory jobs to earn enough money for us to get by. I almost never saw her.
“You’re the man of the house now, Mario,” Mom told me the day we moved into this horrible place. “It’s a tough time for everyone. And being gloomy isn’t going to help.”
“But Gloomy is my middle name,” I said. “Mario Gloomy Manzetti.”
I was trying to make her laugh. She hardly ever smiled these days, and she had these lines under her eyes she never had before.
She swept her light brown hair behind her shoulder. “Promise me you’ll do your best,” she said.
I raised my right hand and swore I’d do my best.
“We are lucky to have a house,” Mom said.
“Lucky,” I repeated.
She tugged at the brown leather bomber jacket I liked to wear because it made me look tough. “Mario, that jacket is getting small on you,” she said.
“I’ll try not to grow anymore,” I told her. I tightened my stomach and hunched down to my knees.
That made her laugh.
Now, Ivy and I stood in front of the house with the October wind gusting around us. Fat brown leaves danced around our legs.
“I guess the worst part is living across the street from a graveyard,” I said.
Ivy poked me in the ribs. “Are you scared?” she asked in a singsong voice. “Is little Mario scared of a graveyard?”
“I’m not scared,” I said, poking her back. “It’s just … depressing.”
“Ooh. Big word,” she said. “So? You live in a haunted house across the street from a graveyard. What is the big deal?”
The truth is, maybe I was a little scared. I’m not a tough guy. Sometimes I have nightmares that make me wake up all sweaty and shaky. And I’ve never been in a fight with another kid. I always find a way to talk my way out of fights.
When I was little, I pretended to be Superman or Captain Marvel. I wore a towel for a cape and had my underpants over my pajama pants. And I ran around, pretending to “leap tall buildings in a single bound.”
I think I really believed there were these powerful guys in capes and tights who were around to fight bad guys and protect everyone else. But then my dad went off to war, and I had to grow up a little and forget that comic-book stuff.
Ivy leaned into the wind and trotted across the street, her blond hair bouncing behind her.
“Hey, wait up!” I shouted. “Where are you going?”
I could see where she was headed. Into the graveyard.
Our shoes crackled over the brown leaves as we followed a path through the tilted stone graves. Wind gusts made the old gravestones creak and groan.
“Why don’t we go to the candy store instead?” I asked. I pointed to the little store on the corner past the graveyard. “I have a nickel. We could load up on root beer barrels and licorice sticks.”
“Mom said not to ruin my appetite for dinner,” Ivy said. “Don’t you like walking in this place? Some of the graves are so old —”
“It’s … my first time,” I said.
The sky darkened. I looked up and saw storm clouds rolling overhead. The wind rattled the limbs of the old tree beside us.
I shivered. I raised the collar of my bomber jacket. My eyes gazed all around. The blowing, crackling leaves made the whole place seem alive.
Ivy pointed. “That grave is so tiny. Do you think a child is buried there?”
Before I could answer, I saw something that made me gasp.
I grabbed Ivy’s arm. “Look. Ivy. Something just moved — by that tombstone.”
We both stared into the gray light.
“Oh noooo,” I moaned.
I watched, trembling in horror as someone climbed out of a grave.
I squeezed Ivy’s arm. We both froze and watched. Dressed all in black, the terrifying figure kept his face down. He stepped from behind the tall gravestone — raised his arms in front of him — and began staggering stiffly toward Ivy and me.
“Noooo. Oh noooo.” Another moan escaped my throat.
And then the staggering creature raised his head — and I screamed. “Anthony! You jerk!”
My little brother tossed back his black hood and burst out laughing. He has a high, shrill coyote laugh that makes me want to strangle him.
But I grabbed him by the shoulders instead, and shook him hard. “You little rat. You scared us to death.”
That made Anthony laugh even harder.
Ivy laughed, too. “He got you this time, Mario.”
“Me?” I cried. “Me? You were scared, too. Ivy.”
“No, I wasn’t,” she said. “I was only pretending.”
The sky grew even darker, and I heard the rumble of thunder in the distance.
“Let go of me,” Anthony said.
I didn’t realize I was still gripping his shoulders.
He stamped hard on my right foot.
“Owww!” I uttered a cry and staggered back.
Anthony laughed again. He’s a little creep. He’s always following me and trying to scare me. I’d like to smash him. But as the man of the house, my job is to watch over him and take care of him as best I can.
The truth is, I can’t really hate him. Mainly because he looks just like me. We
both have thick, wavy black hair, round faces, dark eyes, and we’re tall and kind of beefy.
“Look what I found,” Anthony said. He grabbed my hand and started to pull me along the grassy path between the graves.
The wind felt wet. It shook the trees and sent the dead leaves skipping over the old tombstones.
“Look,” Anthony said, pointing down.
Ivy and I stared at a deep hole in the ground. “It’s an open grave,” Ivy said.
I shivered again. I pulled my jacket tighter. “It’s an open grave, waiting for someone,” I murmured. I grabbed Anthony. “Maybe it’s waiting for YOU!”
He pulled away. “Maybe it’s waiting for someone named Mario,” he said. His dark eyes flashed. “I dare you to jump down there.”
My eyes darted over the grave. It was deep and the mud walls were black. Even in the dim light, I could see fat worms crawling over the grave floor.
Ivy laughed.
“What’s so funny?” I snapped.
“Your face,” she said. “You look so terrified. It’s just a mud hole, Mario.”
“No, it isn’t,” I replied. “Someone dug this for a dead person. It isn’t a hole — it’s a grave.”
“I knew you couldn’t do it,” Anthony said. He jumped up and down, like he’d won a big victory. “I’m braver than you are! I’m braver than you are!”
Ivy turned to me. Her green eyes locked on mine. “Go ahead. Jump in,” she whispered. “Don’t let Anthony win.”
I squinted into the grave. I watched the worms crawling in the mud at the bottom. It looked so dark and disgusting down there. But I had just met Ivy. I didn’t want her to think I was a coward.
I stepped to the edge.
Should I do it? Should I jump?
Before I could decide, someone gave me a hard shove from behind.
“Hey!!” I let out a scream — and went sailing into the grave.
“Owww.” I landed hard on my elbows and knees. Pain shot down my whole body.
I struggled to climb to my feet. The strong smell of the mud floor rose to my nostrils. Wet clumps of dirt smeared my hands.
Ivy and Anthony peered down at me. I growled and shook my fist at my brother. “You pushed me — you rat! I’ll get you! I’m not kidding. You’ll be sorry, Jerk Face.”
Anthony’s eyes grew wide. “But … I didn’t,” he stammered. “Mario — I swear. I didn’t push you.”
“Liar!” I screamed. “Dirty liar!” I tried to rub the mud off my hands on the legs of my jeans.
“I never touched you,” Anthony insisted.
“He’s telling the truth,” Ivy called down. The wind gusted hard, almost drowning out her voice. She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “I was watching him, Mario. He didn’t push you.”
“Oh, yeah?” I snarled. “Someone shoved me down here. Who was it?”
Ivy laughed. “Maybe it was a ghost.”
Rain started to come down. Big, heavy drops that made a splat sound on the muddy grave floor.
I rubbed my back. It still ached from the hard push. I don’t believe in ghosts. Anthony had to be lying. He pushed me. It’s the kind of thing Anthony likes to do.
Ivy was just trying to protect him.
Rain slapped the sides of the grave. “Get me out of here,” I said. “It’s too deep. I can’t climb out by myself.”
Ivy had her hands on her knees. She bent over the grave. “You can’t climb up the side?”
“It’s too muddy,” I said. “I’d just slide right back down.”
She turned to Anthony. “Come help me.”
They both reached down for me. I raised my arms to them. They each grabbed a hand and tugged. I saw the dirt at the side of the grave crumble away.
“Noooo!” Ivy screamed as she started to fall.
I staggered back as they both came tumbling into the grave.
Anthony landed on his feet. His body appeared to bounce, but he kept his balance.
Ivy landed facedown in the mud.
“I don’t believe this,” I muttered. I grabbed Ivy by the shoulders of her sweater and helped pull her to her feet.
She blinked a few times, stunned. Then she grinned at me. “I wasn’t expecting a mud bath today,” she said. “Look at me. I’m dripping in mud. So this is what pigs feel like.”
Cheerful. Always cheerful.
“I … I’m not happy right now,” Anthony murmured.
“Going down into the grave was your idea,” I said.
He shook his head. “I wanted you to go into the grave — not me.”
The raindrops came down harder. Above us, I could hear the wind swirling through the graves.
I dug both hands into the grave wall and tried to climb. But my hands slid right back down. The mud fell off in big clumps.
Lightning crackled above us.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” I said.
Without another word, all three of us began to scream.
“Help! Help us! Can anybody hear us? Somebody — help!”
R.L. Stine’s books are read all over the world. So far, his books have sold more than 300 million copies, making him one of the most popular children’s authors in history. Besides Goosebumps, R.L. Stine has written the teen series Fear Street and the funny series Rotten School, as well as the Mostly Ghostly series, The Nightmare Room series, and the two-book thriller Dangerous Girls. R.L. Stine lives in New York with his wife, Jane, and Minnie, his King Charles spaniel. You can learn more about him at www.RLStine.com.
Goosebumps book series created by Parachute Press, Inc.
Copyright © 2013 by Scholastic Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, GOOSEBUMPS, GOOSEBUMPS HORRORLAND, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Cover design by Steve Scott
Cover art by Brandon Dorman
e-ISBN 978-0-545-63092-4
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